


I'll find strength in pain

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, Love Confession, M/M, Pining Enjolras, Sick Grantaire, kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:17:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was like his rhythmical pulse had been replaced by a dull yet murderous feeling of remorse, every harsh word they had exchanged the night before pounding like venom against his meninges, freezing his blood even more with every breath that he drew. He was on no account prepared for the sight he was faced with, for some reason he was expecting Grantaire to crack a bleary, blue eye open and curl his lips in a sarcastic smile. It was wrong, so terribly wrong for the man to be lying on a hospital bed, his eyelids shut, his skin white like the pillow his dark, unruly curls were spread upon, his body limp and unconscious.<br/>Enjolras let himself fall on the uncomfortable, plastic chair on his bedside before his wobbling knees would deceive him.</p><p>Written for the Kink Meme prompt: Grantaire is in really bad shape -- really really sick or badly injured, either's fine -- and everyone's worried/scared for him, but (of course) Enjolras freaks out to a level beyond that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> God I'm sorry if this is terribly melodramatic without any reason, but I just saw that prompt in the Spin, Hugo, Spin les Miserables kink meme community and I had to fill it! If you find it ridiculously fluffy or badly written please share your honest opinions with me, I will terribly appreciate them. 
> 
> The prompt:  
> grantaire is in really bad shape -- really really sick or badly injured, either's fine -- and everyone's worried/scared for him, but (of course) enjolras freaks out to a level beyond that.
> 
> p. much anything else is okay from there -- worried!e is yay, les amis promising to stay right by r the whole time and then still having to drag e away = :::grin:::, e just constantly talking to an unconscious/delirious/etc r = giveittome...
> 
> ...yeah so basically the more awful things done to grantaire and the more awful enjolras feels the happier i will be

He never really got sick and when he did, he stubbornly preferred to make as little a fuss as possible. He usually stayed home and found excuses to not meet his friends, sleeping it off until he’d feel better, denying anyone’s help and playing the doctor for himself, usually torturing his weary body even more.

He had no idea, he wasn’t expecting it at all.

It started with a faint tickling on his throat, a distant need to clear it which he tried, managing to earn an annoyed glance from Enjolras in the middle of the meeting, without any other successful results whatsoever. Soon he started coughing dryly, every now and then, and he immediately tried his best to hide from Joly’s concerned and alarmed ears. The cough became more frequent throughout the day, to the point that it hardly stopped at all during the night, waking him up several times. He thought it to be an irritation of his throat at first, and tried different sleeping positions with the desperate hope that everything would magically stop if he sat up slightly on his side against the pillows and rested his head on his fist. Eventually he had to rush to the kitchen and seek for some water, unable to inhale at all through his coughing, ending up bent in half, breathless and weak on his knees.

He didn’t manage to sleep for more than two hours that night, and on the next morning he was feeling horrible. His head was throbbing and his eyes burning, every muscle was sore and the cough was now wet and violent. His whole body was shaken by it and he hated every single horrible, gurgling sound he produced. At first he believed it was an effect from his smoking habits, which he hated and loved at the same time, for the very fact that smoking was the honest enemy which brought him closer to oblivion and helped him burn his every dark thought into ash.

He decided to take some medicine, not because he felt _weak,_ but in order to get away from Joly and Combeferre’s gentle suggestions to have someone check that cough and make sure everything was okay. He also needed to stop himself from feeling so ashamed when Enjolras sighed in exasperation after being interrupted through the meetings, even though he tried to cover every hint of shame under a thick layer of sarcasm, his bigger talent next to drinking himself to oblivion.

On the next day came the fight. It was his fault, it had _always_ been his fault. He had no limits when it came to mocking their cause, to laugh at Enjolras and his conviction right in his face, to challenge his luck again and again, not only because he ceased to show faith in anything the leader was passionate about, but also for the sole sake of arguing, for the feeling that he had _some kind_ of effect, -whatever that could mean- on the man he loved, on the man he always managed to disgust.

He knew it was his fault yet the harsh words that followed, spat from both sides, made his insides clench uncomfortably, his chest to tighten and hurt. He was dumbstruck. Never again had the beautiful, passionate revolutionary talked to him in such a way, and he couldn’t even believe how much it broke his heart again and again, as he masochistically repeated every word in his throbbing head after that, until burning tears swelled on his eyes. He started coughing violently between their shouts, Jehan arrived immediately with a glass of water and Combeferre demanded seriously that they’d both stop, but there was no need. He burst out of the café and in the chill of the night, and walked home.

Drinking his sorrows away that night, was the worst decision he’d ever taken. The alcohol burnt in his throat, resulting to a wrecking coughing fit, bending him over the sink of the bathroom, causing him to wheeze desperately. He could not deny the fact that he was sick anymore and that his illness was more than a smile cold, the realization covered his skin in a thin layer of cold sweat but he could not bring himself to ask for help, he could not worry Combeferre, not after making an ass of himself that night, he was already too ashamed to bear the thought of becoming a burden.

Next morning, on Sunday, they had an urgent meeting to plan the upcoming protest rally. He appeared, no argument or fight ever managed to keep him back. He always tried, he always returned, a faithful, humble servant to his God of light.

Enjolras did not apologize, -he had no reason- but he asked him whether he was feeling better and that he should probably take something for his cough, and Grantaire was both ecstatically thankful and probably delirious because he _thought_ he’d seen a hint of concern across the leader’s darkened expression. He just chuckled hoarsely, waving his hand in the air dismissively and saying he was fine, only to be deceived by more coughing that shook his body.

Éponine raised an eyebrow. “You are such a butthead sometimes, R. You won’t accept help until you’re about to die.”

Jehan stretched his body over the table anxiously and pressed a cold palm against his clammy forehead, looking slightly relieved when he felt his temperature. “You don’t have a fever, but this still sounds nasty.”

Combeferre, who had been silent and thoughtful until then, touched his shoulder gently. “You really should have this looked over, just to be on the safe side.”

Joly bit his lower lip nervously, his eyes seeming to be examining the man’s appearance as if he could fully diagnose him that way. “I have my bag here, I should probably listen to your chest, make sure it’s not pneumonia.”

Bahorel just laughed and patted Joly’s back, knowing how his friend tended to exaggerate for everything, and soon the tension was defused, and Grantaire was extremely thankful for hardly coughing at all for the rest of the meeting.

It was after his friends had left, all apart from Enjolras, who stayed for more as always to tidy their notes and work alone for a little more. Grantaire hesitated before leaving, and rested against the doorway, receiving an impatient look from the blond man who still seemed angry towards him.

Grantaire didn’t do apologies, his dignity had long ago been sacrificed at the nights when he’d drink until he’d forget his name, but he still didn't allow himself to take his words back and ask for forgiveness, However now, for once, he felt the urge to say he was sorry, he needed to be forgiven.

He took a deep, painful breath and tried to walk towards the other man, but before he could open his mouth to speak, he was coughing violently, his eyes wide open in horror and his chest burning painfully with every breath he tried to take. He ended up wheezing furiously against a wall, his hands clenched against his chest desperately. Before he was able to realize what was happening, Enjolras’ arms were wrapped around his body, and he was supporting his weight with a terrified look on his face, one hand pressed soothingly against his chest and another rubbing his back in a comforting manner.

He didn’t know what he was expecting when Enjolras opened his mouth, but furious words full of anger most definitely weren’t on top of his list.

“For Christ’s sake, are you trying to kill yourself with that smoking? Why don’t you ever hear Combeferre, why don’t you do something for this terrible cough? Do you not give a fuck for any of us? Always so selfish… such a selfish _idiot!_ ”

He was feeling too weak to be able to find meaning in any of those words which stabbed him like knives with their tone of disappointment and disgust. When he caught his breath, he managed to mutter an apology before releasing himself from the other man’s grip and bursting out of the café.

It was Feuilly who found him a little later, kneeled on the piles of his bathroom, covered in a sheen of sweat, unable to take a breath between his wheezing and gurgling coughs. He sounded like he was suffocating, and the ginger man immediately wrapped his arms around him and practically carried him to the car. “I can’t believe what you’ve done to yourself!” he muttered to himself under his breath throughout the whole way. Grantaire couldn’t protest anymore. He was greedily sucking for oxygen, curled into a miserable ball, resting his sweaty forehead against the cold window of the car. "If only you weren’t so ridiculously stubborn! If you let us help you!”

Just then it occurred to him: his friends _cared._ How could he have done that to them? He didn’t deserve their worry yet he had managed to scare them all because he’d been so careless and stupid… how he wished he could turn back in time and accept their help, how he wished he could save himself… Now it was too late, too fuckin’ late because he was suffocating, his vision was blurred with tears and Feuilly was furious, he hated the worried glances he shot him from the driver’s seat, he hated his hoarse, shaking voice as he helped him out of the car and in the elevator, heading to Joly’s apartment.

Everything that followed was lost in a haze of coughing and wheezing for breath, feeling like his insides were being torn in shreds, burning and exploding at the same time, Musichetta’s shocked cry as she opened the door, Bossuet helping Feuilly to carry him somewhere soft, probably a couch, his own voice muttering incoherent apologies as a pallid, shaking Joly pressed something cold on his chest, a stethoscope, turning his head around in slow motion, after some agonizing moments, to cry something about a car.

The room was spinning around him, fading steadily. His head was pounding with fever and his chest was being ripped apart. It was late, it was too late. What would his Apollo say?

The last sounds he heard was a car taking off and several voices shouting, everything paled by his agonizing breaths that pained his every muscle.

Everything went dark.

______________________________________________________________________________

He was finishing a speech, sitting cross-legged on the couch with his laptop resting on his knees and a warm mug of coffee wrapped between his fingers when his phone rang.

He reached for it with slow movements, secretly wishing to be left alone and relax for a while; so many confusing and worrying thoughts had been creeping upon his mind for him to be able to deal with everything.

It was Combeferre. He cleared his throat before answering. “Hey. I wanted to talk to you about the pamphlets. I’m not sure whether the display…”

“Enjolras…” Something sounded wrong about his best friend’s voice and Enjolras immediately felt an uncomfortable wave of uncertainty prevailing upon him. His voice grew softer, more cautious.

“Yes ‘Ferre, what happened?”

He could hear the other man’s slow breathing from the other end of the line and before he even spoke, the muscles in Enjolras’ body had gone numb. “Enjolras… Grantaire is in the Emergency Room.”

He froze in his place, completely forgetting how to breathe as his heart started pounding madly in his chest. It should have taken a few seconds of silence, before Combeferre cleared his throat. “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” he heard his own voice coming out strangled, croaked. “I’m coming.”

He didn’t remember how the phone fell from his hands after the dull beeping sound of hanging up, he didn’t remember how he threw himself out of his apartment in the sweatpants he was wearing, and a coat on top of his old, red sweater, he didn’t remember slamming the door of the cab behind him, or the painful, horrible journey to the Hospital, with his heart caught on his throat and a terrible feeling of emptiness spreading from his nauseous head to his limp feet, his memories began from the moment he burst through the white doors of the ER, the frantic thump of his sneakers pounding rhythmically against his head, the faint shadows of patients and doctors walking around but never bumping into him, and his whole body pulsated with guilt, horror and remorse.

He didn’t hate Grantaire. He had hated him once, that was true, but lately his feelings for the drunkard had changed radically. He found himself oddly attracted by the man in the corner of the room, of those bright blue eyes with the dark circles underneath, the thin, chapped lips, always curled up on a crooked, sarcastic smile, he would never admit it but their fights helped him improve his arguments, they made him stronger yet these completely new sentiments were terribly confusing and frustrating for him, and he had done his best to shove them out of his mind. Every struggle was in vain, as the cynical man hardly ever managed to leave his head, and his constant looks of veneration, the unexpected _devotion_ he sometimes read in his icy glance, even his snarky, piercing comments, made his heart beat faster, in a passionate mixture of hatred and need, need to show him how _wrong_ he was, how frustrating and horrible, by shoving him against the wall, wrapping his fist around the fabric of his flannel shirt, feel his warm breath that reeked of whiskey and cigarettes upon his skin…

He was one of the first to notice that Grantaire was looking a little under the weather throughout the past couple of days yet he had hurried to blame everything on the man’s disgusting addicting habits. He had heard him cough his lungs out before, after smoking one cigarette too many, he had allowed his eyes to lay affectionately upon the dark circles and the yellowish complexion of his skin after several hangovers and he struggled hard to convince himself that what was happening was completely normal.

They had a fight, one of their worse. He had been furious against the man, he had spent his day hating him yet unable to stop thinking about his pessimistic, mocking remarks in order to focus on his work. Needless to say, he failed miserably, and just then, Combeferre had entered the room he was working in and settled in an armchair with a mug of hot chocolate in his hands. “You know,” he had started rather casually, even though his expression was serious. “I worry about Grantaire’s cough.”

Enjolras barely raised his eyes from his work, trying his best for his voice to come out as neutral as possible. “He smokes too much,” he had shrugged his shoulders.

Combeferre had let a small sigh. “Maybe you are right. But he should have it checked out.”

Enjolras had shrugged his shoulders. “There is nothing I could do about it. I’m not his babysitter.”

After that, Combeferre had let him to his work, and for once Enjolras had felt thankful for being left alone.

The fuzzy whirlwind of thoughts in his head was replaced by an extremely clear feeling of pain that burnt his whole body as he arrived at the end of the corridor and was faced with the familiar figures of his friends, some of them sharing their fear and the others shutting to themselves.

Marius was walking nervously up and down while a pale Cosette tried desperately to pin him on a chair, mumbling sweet, incoherent nothings. Courfeyrac, who never tried to hide his feelings, had obviously cried as his eyes were red rimmed and glowing, but was now comforting a weeping Jehan, his arms wrapped around his curled figure. Joly’s shoulders were slumped as he rested against a wall, his glance frozen, squeezing Feuilly’s hand as if he was trying to comfort him, even though he was seeking for reassurance himself through that brief contact. As for Bossuet and Bahorel, they had just arrived with drinks and snacks everyone accepted half-heartedly, unusually quiet, having given up any efforts to defuse the tension.

Combeferre was the first to notice his presence. His features were drowned as he had his arms wrapped around a sobbing Éponine, a painfully unusual sight for the strong, brave girl. Gently releasing her, he walked towards him and opened his arms, allowing him to curl into his best friend’s embrace and rest his head on his shoulder. “You came,” muttered Combeferre in his ear, and it was the relief and the surprise in those very words that brought the first burning tears in Enjolras’ eyes, and leaning closer to the familiar warmth and comforting scent of the bespectacled man, he allowed them to stream freely down his cheeks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a kiss. And it pretty much makes up for all the melodrama... Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah yes, stupid fluff again but that's me, what can you do?

Endless terrifying scenarios swirled through Enjolras’ mind as he clutched on the soft wool of Combeferre’s sweater. “Tell me now,” he finally muttered, doing his best to collect himself and prevent his voice from sounding broken.

Combeferre gently pulled away and stared at him genuinely. “Pneumonia,” he replied quietly, hurrying to add: “Thank God. It’s going to be alright.”

Enjolras shut his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the news to sink in. “Pneumonia doesn’t really sound like it’s going to be alright…” his voice was hoarse and shaking slightly, but he thankfully seemed composed. “The others are crying, this doesn’t mean he’s alright, does it?” his voice was steadily growing more high-pitched, reminding Combeferre of a child who was desperately seeking for reassurance.

The man placed a comforting hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, cracking a small, sad smile. “It’s normal. It’s the middle of the night, it _is_ a quite severe case of pneumonia going untreated for a while, they’re tired, worried and guilty,” he noticed the dark shade prevailing upon his friend’s face and hurried to add: “Not that anyone should be. I just should have seen the signs earlier.” Enjolras had lowered his glance when Combeferre placed his thumb underneath his chin and forced him to face him. “People are not… in danger by pneumonia anymore, Enjolras.” The actual phrase that Combeferre carefully avoided was throbbing uncomfortably in Enjolras’ head. _People do not_ die _from pneumonia anymore._ “He’s in good hands, he’s being given antibiotics. There was fluid in his lungs and his system is positively exhausted, it might take a while for him to wake up, but he’s going to be alright.”

“Can’t I see him?”

Combeferre shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid that you can’t yet.”

Enjolras sighed, suddenly feeling the urge to punch the wall with his fist. Instead he slowly made  his way to Jehan's side as Combeferre returned to Éponine. He was never a good comforter, he definitely had his way with people when it came to leading them and stirring their faith, but when things got more intimate, when powerful feelings such as love, grief, sadness or enthusiasm came in hand, he felt mostly at loss. He desperately needed to throw an arm around the poet and comfort him, he needed Courfeyrac to throw his arms around _him_ and do the same, but he didn’t dare stir from his place. He sat on a chair, frozen, resting his chin on his fists, his glance made of steel as he fixed it on a spot of insignificant importance on the white wall opposite him.

Minutes passed, then hours, and everyone seemed to be trapped inside their own walls of guilt and worry, every reaction completely different to the person’s sitting near them. Marius was fast asleep with his head on Cosette’s shoulder as she rested her head on his own, Courfeyrac and Jehan were curled into a motionless pile of limbs and slump shoulders, Joly and Bossuet were awake, with their foreheads united, so was Feuilly and Bahorel, on whose laps was lying an exhausted Éponine.

Eventually a doctor arrived, and whoever was asleep, as well as a slowly rising Jehan and a Marius who jumped up , mumbling incoherent words and startling Cosette, turned to face him. Enjolras and Joly stood up.

His situation was steady but they had to put him on oxygen therapy. They could see him if they wanted to, but he needed strict rest, not that he would respond to any stimulation of his environment for the time being, but still.

“It would be better if you went in there one at a time, though,” the doctor said, realizing that a dozen of young people were waiting outside the room, full of worry.

Enjolras’ heart was pounding madly as his friends exchanged glances, Bahorel shifting awkwardly his weight from one foot to the other, Jehan chewing the inside of his mouth and Joly pressing his lips in a thin line. Finally Combeferre reached behind him, squeezing his shoulder gently. “Will you be alright?” he asked. Enjolras nodded mechanically. “Go, we’ll be waiting for you.”

It was like his rhythmical pulse had been replaced by a dull yet murderous feeling of remorse as the door of the hospital room was shut behind him, every harsh word they had exchanged the night before pounding like venom against his meninges, freezing his blood even more with every breath that he drew. He was on no account prepared for the sight he was faced with, for some reason he was expecting Grantaire to crack a bleary, blue eye open and curl his lips in a sarcastic smile. It was wrong, so terribly wrong for the man to be lying on a hospital bed, his eyelids shut, his skin white like the pillow his dark, unruly curls were spread upon, his body limp and unconscious.

Enjolras let himself fall on the uncomfortable, plastic chair on his bedside before his wobbling knees would deceive him.

Grantaire’s nose and mouth were covered with a plastic mask, connected with a large tube to the oxygen source. There were IVs plugged in his hands and arms that stood limp near his body, and his heart monitor was beeping rhythmically, making Enjolras feel like he was shamelessly intruding in something very personal; he didn’t deserve to be there. This was Jehan’s place, or Eponine’s, or Feuilly's, yet they generously gave it to him and Grantaire’s pale, sleeping figure didn’t make him feel worth being there. The sight he could do nothing about, the sanitized scent of the air in the hospital room, the dull sounds produced by the machines soon broke him, and before he could control his emotions the dried tears gave their turn to fresh, muffled sobs that shook his slumped shoulders and blurred his vision. He wanted to wrap his arms around the unconscious man, press his lips chastely on every exposed inch of his pallid skin, feel his heart beating reassuringly against his body, he needed to shout, to shake his shoulders and demand that he’d wake; he was angry, Grantaire always managed to make him angry, Grantaire didn’t have the right to be unconscious, to be sick, Grantaire should be awake and drunk and loud.

He wanted to apologize.

Oh, how he _needed_ to apologize, how he needed those tears to burn with relief, regret and forgiveness instead of pain and loss…

His lips moved before he could control his actions, he heard his own voice and he thought he was going mad, as Grantaire would be unable to hear it, yet he didn’t feel as if he was talking to a wall. It was soothing, in a way, suddenly he felt free from a heavy weight he seemed to have been carrying for a long time, suddenly he could breathe.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, R. I mean, I’ll be terribly relieved if you can hear me, yet I will be equally so if you can’t. I wanted to apologize. I hate myself for shouting at you, even though I still believe I was right… oh fuck this. I just hate the fact that you were sick and I was an oblivious butthead, I always was too busy blaming you, arguing with you and pointing out everything wrong you did and I never took the chance to show you what you meant to me. You’ve cruelly invaded in my mind lately, you haven’t been merciful at all. I hated myself for this, for thinking about you all the time, for occupying myself with trying to despise you, trying to find ways to piss you off but that was _your_ area of expertise, _you have a vague ambition in that direction_ like you always used to say in your slow, sarcastic voice… I _do_ hate you, Grantaire, I hate you more than I hate myself. You were so stubborn and you never thought for us… Did you believe you were punishing me for being a dick? Well, you succeeded. If I ever lost you… No, I’ll never fuckin’ lose you, you’ll wake up healthy and paint again so beautifully, those whimsical, dark masterpieces I never showed you how much I admired because I hardly ever figured out what was going on in that complex, pessimistic mind of yours, you’ll play the guitar and box with Bahorel and dance in that shameful, promiscuous way that I _hate_ passionately, dance like you own the world but don’t know it yet. Do you remember that time when you were drunk –what a fuckin’ _surprise!-_ at Courfeyrac’s birthday, and you tried to teach me how to dance? Your grabbed my waist –without my consent, of course- and twirled around the room, swinging your hips in those horrible, tacky leather pants. Wake up Grantaire, please! I need to learn how to dance! Wake up…”

Grantaire didn’t stir. Only his chest was rising and falling slowly with his slow breathing, but his eyes remained shut, his arms limp. The tears that streamed down Enjolras’ cheeks tasted salty when they reached his lips but he didn’t wipe them away.

It was like this that Combeferre found him after a while, curled in the uncomfortable, plastic chair, causing him to jump up. “Do the others want to come?” he asked defensively, not wanting to leave Grantaire now.

“Courfeyrac and I sent half of them home to sleep,” the man whispered calmingly. “They can wait for a while, they feel relieved as long as you are with him.” Combeferre shot a glimpse at the heart monitor, then turned to face Enjolras again. “However you don’t have to stay. You can go home, Feuilly has offered to fill you up.”

“No, I’ll stay here. What if he wakes up?”

Combeferre sighed softly. “I don’t think he’s going to wake up before tomorrow, Enjolras. He’s too worn off.”

“Doesn’t matter, I want to stay.”

Combeferre thought for a while. “Alright. How does some coffee sound?”

“Coffee sounds great, thank you.”

The bespectacled man walked to the door, but when he reached the doorway he stopped and turned around.

“It wasn’t your fault. Nothing was your fault, so please stop feeling guilty.”

“If only I knew…”

“You’re by his side now, that’s what matters.” He turned his back again.

“Combeferre?”

“Yes, Enjolras?”

“Thank you for being here.”

The medical student gave him a weary smile. “No,” he muttered. “Thank _you_ for being here.”

Enjolras didn’t quite understand.

______________________________________________________________________________

Enjolras refused to leave or shut his eyes for the rest of the day, hoping to catch a glimpse of a fluttering eyelid, or a trembling finger from Grantaire. After all, he had been used to sleepless nights, full of essays to be written, work to be done and plans to be accomplished.

Throughout the following day, more of their friends were allowed in the room though two at a time. Enjolras suspected this had to do something with Combeferre and Joly, who did their practice in that hospital. Jehan was bringing more and more flowers, turning the room to a colorful jungle. They brought Enjolras food and forced him to eat. “We’re all here. You can leave if you want.”

“I don’t want to.”

When the room emptied, he stayed there and talked to him receiving nothing in response but a faint, steady breath and the beeping of the machines.

A few more hours passed in a haze, and soon exhaustion took over him. Combeferre found him curled on the plastic chair a littler later, when he came to cover him with a warm blanket. His fingertips were brushing with Grantaire’s.

He woke up from a nightmare, Joly and Courfeyrac were in the room, staring at him worriedly.

“Come on,” muttered Courfeyrac tenderly. “We’re going home.”

“No,” Enjolras whispered angrily, groaning while rubbing his bleary eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Enjolras,” sighed Joly, sitting on the edge of Grantaire’s bed and placing his hands on his knees. “You need to get a proper night’s sleep.”

“You need to shave, take a shower, grab some clean clothes,” Courfeyrac chimed in. “You can’t go on like this.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, even though the idea of a shower and a good shave to get rid of the sickly feeling of the hospital sounded particularly tempting, but Joly was fast enough to interrupt him. “You won’t be here for him if you get sick too,” he said softly, and suddenly Enjolras knew that his friend was right.

Courfeyrac drove him to his apartment, and he did his best to respond to the brunet’s effort to keep the conversation going quite eagerly, even though he clearly didn’t feel like it. He thought it would distract him from what he was leaving behind but he was wrong. He was afraid that something would happen during his absence, it was as if he had been cruelly parted from a childhood friend.

The apartment was silent and painfully empty. Courfeyrac escorted him upstairs, giving him a bear hug and a sloppy kiss before leaving him. It wasn’t until he collapsed on his bed that he felt the true extent of his sleep deprivation creeping upon him.

He slept heavily, his lips parted, causing his mouth to go dry and his body motionless like a log. He had one of those dreams where one is aware of the fact that he can’t move and tries desperately in his sleep, only to end up panicking. He was woken up by the ring of his phone, which echoed like cannons in his head. Gasping and covered in sweat, he threw himself up and answered, his heart thumping against his ribcage.

Jehan sounded breathless yet relieved from the end of the line. “He’s woken up.”

His second journey to the hospital was as much of a haze as the first one. Having showered quickly, he threw on the first clothes he found in Courfeyrac’s bedroom where he had dozed off –a purple pair of jeans that was impossibly tight and a huge, olive sweater with a cat on it. On second thoughts, that was probably Jehan’s.

He didn’t manage to calm his heartbeat down while he was in the cab, and when they stopped in the parkway of the hospital, he tipped the driver rather generously and burst outside.

There was a nurse out of Grantaire’s door. “You can’t see this patient right now,” she apologized kindly. “There are already too many of your friends in there. We should wait for them to leave the room.”

Enjolras was ready to shout something particularly rude about stupid hospital rules. There already were eleven people in there –rather noisy, as he could predict and hear through the door- and his sole presence would make a difference… Genius.

Instead he remained silent and started walking up and down the corridor, huffing and hiding small, nervous chuckles, not caring of the nurse’s raised eyebrow. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe he wanted to be alone when he’d see Grantaire. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he wasn’t brave enough for that.

Of course he was brave!

“How has he been?” he finally asked the nurse.

“He’s been improving steadily,” she smiled. “Still a little drowsy, but he’s responding well to the antibiotics and his vitals are good. He’ll probably be in full health in a week or so and he’ll be able to leave the hospital earlier than that.”

Enjolras let a deep breath of relief, clenching his fists tightly in his pockets. Soon, the door opened and Bahorel, Éponine, Feuilly, Jehan and Joly walked out, all looking tired but incredibly excited, as if they'd just left from a crazy party.

Jehan threw his arms around Enjolras’ neck. Éponine raised an eyebrow, without managing to look as disapproving as she’d like. “I thought you’d never come. That’s what he probably though as well.” Joly shot her a warning look and Bahorel smiled reassuringly, giving Enjolras a peace sign with his fingers.

Enjolras knocked on the door and turned the handle, clearing his throat as he stood on the doorway.

The room was filled with balloons and _Get Well_ cards, a brand new easel which was probably a gift bought from Feuilly’s little economies, and colorful flowers were brightening the place. However the man’s figure, looking unexpectedly small and frail underneath the sheets, had something miserable and bitter. Grantaire had been looking the other way. His head was raised underneath several pillows. The tubes were still plugged in his arms, breaking Enjolras’ heart, but fortunately the man could now breathe without the aid of the machine. His dark curls were dishevelled and spread upon the white pillow, the curve of his neck shining with a thin sheen of sweat, his collarbone exposed from the neckline of his light blue gown, making him look thinner than before.

When he heard Enjolras entering, it took him a while to slowly turn his head and face him. When Enjolras' eyes met with those huge, bright blue ones, the beeping of the heart monitor grew faster and the blond would swear that it seemed absolutely synchronized with his own pulse which pounded in his ears. He rushed near him and sat on the edge of his bed, carefully tangling his fingers with a shocked Grantaire’s. “Are you alright?” he asked, alarmed. And before Grantaire would be able to reply, Enjolras’ eyes fell on an open champagne bottle on the small table near the bed, and he frowned. “I hope they didn’t allow you anywhere near this.”

Grantaire’s voice came out weak and drowsy, but the blond had never felt happier at its sound. “If I want to get myself anywhere near alcohol in here Apollo, then I should probably beer shoved in my IVs". Enjolras didn’t laugh and Grantaire grimaced. “Sorry, tacky,” he murmured hoarsely, coughing softly. “Ignore me, ’m still a little drowsy.”

Enjolras did not reply, but soon his lips formed a hint of a tender smile and his fingers reached for Grantaire’s face, gently brushing a stray, dark lock away, his thumb softly caressing the man’s cheekbone.

Grantaire seemed completely dumbstruck, and his weak body seemed to be struggling to deal with all this unexpected burst of emotion.

“I’m sorry…” muttered Enjolras eventually.

“Jehan told me you stayed here all day,” croaked Grantaire. “I couldn’t believe him. I couldn’t believe that you’d visit me either.”

“Well, believing is hardly your area of expertise,” said Enjolras without venom in his voice, his fingers not leaving Grantaire’s cool skin.

“Right,” smiled Grantaire.

There was a pregnant silence for a while as they stayed like that, and then words were escaping Grantaire’s pale lips before he was able to prevent them. “Why are you here?”

Enjolras stared at him incredulously for a few seconds, then chuckled bitterly. “Why I’m here? I _care,_ Grantaire! Hell…” he took his fingers away, noticing a shadow of disappointment darkening the other man’s features. “You don’t know how I hated you for making me so scared… if I lost you…”

“I’m here,” it seemed as if it was Grantaire was the one comforting him now, “You haven’t lost me, and you never will, unless you’re planning to send me to an early grave with that unexpected affection of yours… Though really, I don’t deserve your pity, you can return to…”

Enjolras didn’t allow him to finish his sentence, as he leaned closer and pressing his lips against Grantaire’s, cupping his face forcefully, causing his blue eyes to open widely in shock.

“You don’t deserve my pity, that’s right,” muttered Enjolras hoarsely, after breaking the kiss and leaving the man breathless. “You deserve much more… Never do this to me again. I need you to stay.”

He could feel Grantaire smiling against his lips. “I’ll stay if you will.”

And with that he threw his fingers between Enjolras’ locks and pulled his head for a second kiss, causing the heart monitor to go in hysterics.

It was alright, he would survive. Enjolras would not permit anything else.


End file.
